


birdbones

by despitethewives (choirboyharem)



Category: Video Blogging RPF, supermega
Genre: Hurt No Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 15:28:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29352711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/choirboyharem/pseuds/despitethewives
Summary: Matt is very girly. He has that high-pitched laugh, his limp little wrists, his tiny waist, the way he screams, how bad he is at handling alcohol and playing video games. He’s so dainty. So waifish. So clingy. Clingy enough not to leave when he knows he’s in trouble. Clingy enough to grasp at the first person who shows him even the slightest bit of attention. Clingy enough to let an adult get him drunk, maybe a bit too drunk to realize what’s going on or whether or not letting that adult touch him is a good idea.
Relationships: Ryan Magee/Matt Watson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 35





	birdbones

**Author's Note:**

> set during the early cyndago era.

Matt is like a bird. He has a great wingspan with his long, slender limbs, naturally agile and clever. He’s eye-catching. He’s glorious. But if you manage to get your hands around him, it’s so easy to subdue him. His bones are so intensely fragile and they splinter if you so much as breathe on them. He’s too light and it’s too easy to throw him around. He practically asks for it. He has beautiful feathers, beautiful everything, and you can pluck them out until he’s naked and sobbing. 

_“Ryan.”_ It’s choked out into the pillow on Ryan’s bed, too noisy, too loud, too shameful. Ryan shoves the heel of his palm into the back of Matt’s neck, burying him further until the only noises Matt can make are purely suffocated. If Matt suffocates, well, even better. It’ll make the murder-suicide out of guilt less painful later.

Matt’s tight. He’s really fucking tight. Ryan wasn’t really expecting that; he thought Matt would’ve at least fingered himself before. When Ryan pulls his fingers back out, the spit he used is red and filmy with blood. 

“I knew you were a fucking virgin,” Ryan murmurs. “Nineteen-year-old virgin, Christ, Matthew.” He shoves his fingers back in deep, scissoring them, stretching Matt open. It’s hard to hear with the pressure that he’s applying to Matt’s skull, but he can still pick up on the pained little moans that try to hide in the damp pillowcase. 

Matt is a sweet little baby bird. Matt is also a girl. 

That might be why this is so easy to do. Why it doesn’t really feel all that homosexual. Matt is very girly. He has that high-pitched laugh, his limp little wrists, his tiny waist, the way he screams, how bad he is at handling alcohol and playing video games. He’s so dainty. So waifish. So clingy. Clingy enough not to leave when he knows he’s in trouble. Clingy enough to grasp at the first person who shows him even the slightest bit of attention. Clingy enough to let an adult get him drunk, maybe a bit too drunk to realize what’s going on or whether or not letting that adult touch him is a good idea. 

Sure, Matt is an adult, he’s nineteen years old, but _fuck,_ if he doesn’t just act so much younger. 

Matt mumbles something into the pillow that Ryan can’t make out at all. Which is fine by him. Ryan withdraws his hand and spits on Matt’s red, raw, abused hole, drenching him before spitting into his own palm as well. Ryan slicks himself up as a tarry, hot, slimy, toxic feeling of guilt burns in the pit of his stomach. He knows this is fucked up. It’s the same exact situation as an asshole frat guy fucking a passed-out drunk chick at a party. It’s not right, none of this is right. 

But he’s doing it anyway. 

The sinister side of Ryan’s brain justifies it for him, saying that it’s not because it’s Matt. It’s not because it’s Matt at all. Ryan doesn’t even really like Matt. Not that much, anyway. He’s trying to, he really is, he’s making an effort for the sake of their work and their friends, but Matt makes it so difficult when he’s such a needy, desperate little bitch who always wants to be the center of attention. Always starved for validation. Annoyingly closeted, too. 

It’s not because it’s Matt. Matt just happens to be here and open and wanting. This should be something he wants anyway. 

“Always see you fuckin’ looking at me,” Ryan mutters, stroking a hand along his cock, yanking Matt closer by his thigh. “Always touching me and shit. Can’t keep your hands off me, can you, faggot?” 

Matt’s shoulders visibly shake. His skeletal fingers clench in the bedsheets. 

“I know you fucking want this. Bet you want every single one of the guys to run a train on you. You want a dick between those lips so bad, don’t you? You want them to dress you up? You want them to use you like a toy?” Ryan positions himself, pressing the head of his dick against Matt’s hole. “Sad little South Carolina queer. Daddy was a little too rough on you when you were growing up, and look what he turned you into.” Ryan shoves forward, burying himself inside Matt, drawing out something like a strangled scream from the kid. 

It’s fucking awful. It’s horrific. It’s disgusting. It’s perverse. 

But it feels so fucking incredible. 

Matt is still tight and he definitely could’ve used a lot more fingering, but Ryan can’t even care about that. Matt clenches around him, fluttering, hot, divine, so good that Ryan swears and has to compose himself before he moves again. Matt’s crying into the pillow, Ryan can tell. And it’s loud. It’s wet sobbing, like Matt is throwing a tantrum, babyish as ever. 

It turns into a broken cry when Ryan starts to fuck into him and it doesn’t stop. It’s _“ah, ah, ah”_ into the pillow, the bed creaking in time with it. It’s everything. Matt feels like heaven around Ryan’s cock and Ryan buries his hand in Matt’s hair again, pulling his head up, using it as leverage. 

“Ryan, please,” Matt gasps out. “Oh, God, fuck, it hurts, it hurts, p-please, Ryan, I-I-I’ll do anything, I swear, please, please stop. Oh, God—” His voice gives out and he moans instead.

“I know you fucking like it.” Ryan slaps Matt’s asscheek in between snaps of his hips, leaving an angry red mark behind that makes Matt jolt. “You’ve wanted to fuck me since the moment we met.” 

Matt just dissolves into incoherent protests. Ryan pounds him into the mattress, stealing his breath from him, teaching him to like it, hitting Matt in just the right way to make him cry in pleasure rather than pain. When Ryan adjusts his angle so he can thrust in even deeper, Matt lets out the sluttiest fucking moan that sounds almost porn-star-level. 

“I told you. I fucking told you. You like that? You like the way that makes you feel?” 

“Yes,” Matt manages out, probably terrified that Ryan is going to hurt him if he denies it. “I-I like it. I do.”

“I told you I knew.” Ryan grinds Matt’s head back down, holding it against the bed with his palm. 

Matt comes a lot sooner than Ryan does. It’s with a shout, convulsing shout, and it really is so girlish that Ryan can pretend. It’s so easy to pretend. There’s also something unspeakably hot about forcing Matt’s orgasm out of him, making him realize that his body has been craving this after all, that he _wants_ Ryan. 

Ryan owns him. Matt’s his property now. He’s been marked with a big _Magee Was Here_ sign, signifying that no one else can touch him.

And no one else will. That’ll be a fun game. 

Ryan thinks he comes harder than he ever has in his life. He stutters and freezes and hisses _“Fuck, fuck, fucking Christ”_ near Matt’s ear, bent over him and grasping at the bed. He nearly sees stars. Matt moans weakly underneath him, twitching and empty. 

Ryan has to take a second to recover from the suckerpunch that his senses take. Matt doesn’t try to move. It’s either from exhaustion or fear. When Ryan does finally pull out, it feels like a loss and he knows he should be feeling sick to death of himself, but then he realizes he’s never, _ever_ felt that satisfied before. Maybe it’s the power. The dominance. Something like that. 

“You better, uh… You might wanna hop in the shower,” Ryan says, clearing his throat as he steps to the floor, picking up his shorts. “Don’t wanna leave behind a bunch of evidence.”

“I guess,” Matt whispers, sitting up in bed. His eyes are rimmed with red and his nose is running. As he hugs himself, he looks so small that it’s impossible to believe he’s as tall as he is. He’s the most pathetic sight imaginable and the darkest, bitterest, most mean-spirited part of Ryan’s soul delights in the thought that _he’s_ the one who did this to Matt. That’s the influence he has over him. If Ryan presses his fingers in deep enough, he can mold Matt into any shape he wants. 

Ryan thinks he will. He leans over and tips Matt’s head up, giving him a soft kiss. Matt makes this little sound between confusion and surprise, but he gives in far too easily. He kisses Ryan back. He lingers. 

When Ryan pulls back again, Matt looks like he just forgot about everything that happened earlier. His sweet, bright, blue doe eyes blink in wonder. He tries to go in for another kiss, but Ryan laughs at him and backs up. Ryan grabs Matt’s wrist, pushing him away with more force than needed. 

“You little freak. The fuck’s wrong with you?”

Matt’s lip quivers. “I don’t know,” he says hollowly. 

“Yeah, I don’t either. Go take a goddamn shower.” 


End file.
